Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Not after some of the shit I’ve said.
Definitely not after some of the fucked-up shit I’ve done.
“You look like shit,” my brother, Noah, finally states adjusting the collar of his flawless navy blue and white button up. He looks like something from a Macy’s catalog our mother would snub her nose at. A fucking salute to overpaid logos, overworked hours, and unspoken mistresses.
He looks exactly like Dad.
And that makes me wanna get up and demand to be escorted back to my room.
“Absolute dogshit,” he echoes, this time with mirth in his tone.
“Yeah, well, what can I say? Not all of us got the perfect Collins genes.” Folding my hands together in front of me, wanting him to see with his own eyes that I pose no threat, I bluntly state, “I didn’t expect anyone to come visit me here.”
“Why?”
Fuck…
I hate Noah’s “concerned face”.
Always have.
It’s so fucking phony.
Even now!
Even when no one who matters can fucking see him he’s still a goddamn, poster boy, boy scout.
The model citizen.
The model son.
The one who would be included in a goddamn patriotic commercial for the perfect American dream.
I try really fucking hard not to solely blame him. I mean, he had all the love and affection and attention he needed whenever he did. He was nurtured. He was groomed and cloaked with the Collins name and traditions. Respected. Which makes sense. He was what they wanted. That box they were more than happy to check. Why would he ever have reason to step off the immaculately laid, undebased, golden path laid at his smaller than average feet?
For a small amount of time – very fucking small – I wondered what life would be like in his shoes. The polished suits and neatly trimmed haircuts. A salary with so many zeroes that your mind couldn’t help but wonder how you would ever spend that much money in multiple lifetimes. I was curious what it would be like to have pride in the decisions you made rather than regret.
I imagine it’s nice.
At the very least, nicer than what I have.
Than what I deserve.
He clears his throat prior to politely requesting my attention, “Ryder?”
Forgetting how easy it is to just drift around in my own thoughts the way I would cities, has me shaking off the rudeness with a muttered apology. “Sorry. Get lost in my own head sometimes.”
Noah does his best to nod in pretend understanding.
“I didn’t think anybody would come because why would they?” Urges for nicotine suddenly begin to claw across my tongue. “Fuck, why did you?”
Noah briefly looks away.
It’s his go-to evading move.
Always has been.
Made it easy to know when to call him on his bullshit.
“You’ve just um…You know. You’ve just been in here awhile.”
“You don’t wanna answer my question.”
“Do you like it here?”
“You really don’t wanna answer my fucking question.”
“Do you hate it?”
“You absolutely don’t plan to answer my goddamn question.”
“Do you wanna switch facilities?”
Rather than answer his question, I silently stare, waiting for him to crack.
He will.
He never did well under unexpected pressure.
“There’s a great one in Montana, not too far from this place called Mistletoe, that’s like Christmas year-round. We could arrange a day visit to go to the town. Or there’s um…there’s one in Coconut Bay. Ocean water. Coconut shrimp. Board shorts instead of scrubs.”
The lack of movement has him tugging at his collar in discomfort.
“They have treatment resorts in other countries we can look into. Canada. Switzerland. Doctenn.”
Receiving no response – verbal or physical – finally shatters the composure he’s been death gripping onto.
“Goddamn it, Ryder! Will you just fucking talk to me? Say something?”
“Why are you here?”
“Why won’t you finish this program?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Why do you not wanna go home?”
“What fucking home, Noah?!”
His mouth drops open, yet nothing comes out.
“Exactly. You have a home. A luxury condo-”
“House.” He adjusts himself in his seat as if he feels guilty about the correction. “Shelly and I bought a six-bedroom house in the neighborhood you and I grew up in.”
“Congrats.”
“Thanks,” he whispers out, uncertain if the words mean anything or not. Honestly, I don't know either. “You’re um…you’re welcomed to come see it for yourself.”
Pass.
“To stay with us for a few when you get out.”
Still pass.
“I’ll even help you get on your feet. Get completely stable and setup and headed for success.”
“Oh, you’re not afraid I’ll steal your motorcycle again?”
The words cause him to twist his lips tightly to the side.
“Maybe your darling wife’s wedding pearls this time?”
He moves his mouth to the other side.
“Damn, maybe I’ll skip the heavy lifting of taking and pawning or taking and fencing, and just grab a blank check from your checkbook and write myself one for a million dollars in cash to set myself up in the Maldives.”
“Ryder-”
“Did you know they don’t extradite?”
“Ryder-”
“You probably knew that.”
“Ry-”
“I mean you just fucking know everything, right? Just like you knew without a fucking doubt that I stole from you.”